


This Is Real

by Lovely_Sunshine_22



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Angry Éponine, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arguing, Basically, Depressed Grantaire, Grantaire needs a hug, Guilty Enjolras, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Child Abuse, Pining Grantaire, Recovery, Sad Grantaire, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Suicidal Thoughts, Worried Enjolras, Worried Joly, but what else is new, grantaire hates himself
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-13
Updated: 2020-03-15
Packaged: 2020-06-27 18:14:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19796335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lovely_Sunshine_22/pseuds/Lovely_Sunshine_22
Summary: Grantaire has a run in with a character from his past, leading to an argument with Enjolras, the man he's been stupidly in love with for as long as he's known him. Hurtful words are said and Enjolras watches in agony as the cynical artist he had come to care about spirals. Is it too late for Enjolras to help him when he finds out what Grantaire had been doing in his spare time?Or where Grantaire is depressed, accidentally almost kills himself and Enjolras is left to pick up the pieces of the man he unknowingly broke.Not beta read, all mistakes are mine.





	1. The Argument

**Author's Note:**

> Now, be warned this is a really, really dark fic, it's quite graphic and just be careful while reading.
> 
> I will be putting warnings on chapter's when needed just in case.
> 
> Warning: Homophobic language

Grantaire was making his way to the Musain for the Le Amis meeting. He knew this was going to be a big one. Enjolras had spent the last week pouring over his speeches to prepare for this evening. It made Grantaire so happy to see Enjolras excited like that, so passionate about what he was saying. Wow, Courfeyrac was right. He was well and truly whipped. 

Grantaire was too lost in thought to realize someone had stepped in front of him until he nearly fell over as he ran straight into him. He felt strong arms keep him upright. It took him a moment to recover before he looked up at the man still gripping his upper arms. 

In front of him stood Michael, a “buddy” of his from Le Lycée. 

Michael and his friends thought it would be funny for Michael to pretend to like him as a joke when the rumor of him being gay started spreading. Their laughter echoed in his head as he remembered the moment he thought he would lose his virginity to the hottest guy in school but instead he got a bunch of video cameras in his face and homophobic slurs from the apparent school bullies. At the time he'd thought that if the boys put as much effort into their school work as they did this prank they might actually get somewhere in life.

He felt his stomach drop and he suddenly felt sixteen all over again, trapped, half-naked, surrounded by five teenage boys whose only plans are to laugh at him at his most vulnerable. 

“Hey there, Gaytaire." The old nickname seeming as dumb since the day he heard it first. Unlike the prank no effort was put into that name.

Grantaire glared at him. "Michael." He answered simply. He'd never loathed a person as he loathed this man. Why was he here.

"What is the whore doing here, ruining such a fine day?” He said it as if he was talking about the weather, like he was making small talk. He’d always made his insults and degradation sound casual.

“What’s an asshole like you doing here in the slums. Looking for another girl to fuck, Michael?” Grantaire spat venomously, his fists tightening subconsciously. The artist took a split second to look around to see if there was anyone to witness it if he punched the bully in the face. There was no one.

Apparently Michael had been a step ahead of him so as Grantaire turned back to look him he was met with a slap in the face. Grantaire staggered backwards in pure surprise. He placed a hand on his stinging cheek in shock. Michael hadn’t hit him since Joly and Bossuet had walked in on Michael abusing him during the last year of le lycée. Michael had graduated two years before them but had always found the time to come say hi to the artist. They had been furious, both at Michael for beating up their friend (a lot, for a long period of time, actually) and at Grantaire for not saying anything. 

“ _It’s not like it matters anyway. He’ll probably stop now that you’ve literally instilled the fear of God in the bastard._ ” He’d said, trying to hide the bruise on his cheek and the forming hickey on his neck from where Michael had bitten in the threats of that particular day. 

“Since when are you allowed to talk to me like that.” it wasn’t a question as it was a statement. Grantaire was torn from the flashback.

He quickly recovered and threw a punch at Micheal, hitting him square in the jaw. He smiled at the move but wasn’t able to celebrate for long because Michael was coming at him, grabbing his shoulders, knocking Grantaire’s head into his own; Grantaire was pretty sure _something_ had cracked and that his nose was bleeding but it was too late to worry now. There were tears in his eyes as tried to get the older boy’s hands off his shoulders but they gripped him too tightly. There were probably going to be bruises. 

Grantaire kicked at Michael’s shin and the man released his hold, giving the cynic an opportunity to send another punch flying, this one hitting Michael in the nose and actually breaking it with a satisfying crunch. Turns out all those years of boxing were good for something. 

“I’m not that twink anymore, now I can say what I want and fight back when you disagree. Fuckin’ bastard.” He huffed, getting into a stance he’d gotten well acquainted with while dueling Bahorel **.** He'd met Bahorel when Joly told him about the boxing gig the man was having at the gym. Grantaire had started to think about learning self defense after the years of abuse from his father and Michael. He had quickly grown close with the man as Bahorel became is sparring partner and personal trainer.

"You're going to regret that fag. Just because you've learned some special moves doesn't change anything. I'll always own you. You can't win this, Peaches." Michael stated, that hated endearment rolling off his tongue. It's what he used to call him back when they were "dating". Now it was just as much of an insult as the homophobic slurs he threw at him.

Grantaire saw red as he flung himself at the other man. He must have caught him off guard because Michael wasn’t able to react so the two fell to the ground, the older knocking his head into the dirty pavement. Michael groaned but Grantaire grinned in satisfaction. 

Michael recovered quickly and kneed Grantaire in the stomach causing the cynic to pull away, clutching his stomach in pain. Michael used the opening to push Grantaire onto his back and climbing on top of him. The older man started punching Grantaire over and over, the artist’s face soon covered in blood and bruises forming quickly. Grantaire started coughing as blood leaked down his throat, causing it to convulse in order to get rid of it. 

That was when Michael stood up from the cynic’s prone from, looking down at it with a disgusting smirk on his face. 

“That’ll teach you not to try and mess with me. You will always be my bitch. No matter how many fancy tricks you learn, no matter how much fighting you do. I will always beat you. You’re nothing but a weak faggot who never got over what happened to him in Le Lycée.” Michael spat at Grantaire before walking away. 

Grantaire turned to his side as he continued his coughing fit, tears streaming out of his eyes. After all these years, all these fucking years and Michael still beat him. Why the fuck was he so useless. All those classes with Bahorel, all those matches they had. It still hadn’t been enough. He was just that shit, he guesses. 

He stood up shakily as he breathed through his mouth, the blood clotting in his nose making it hard to breathe. He would have to wash it off in the bathroom before the meeting. 

_Shit,_ _the meeting_ , Grantaire thought, he was going to be late, _Enjolras is going to be so mad._

He sprinted down the streets of Paris as he made his way towards The Musain. He checked his phone to see how late he was going to be. Well from where he was standing, it would take his about seven minutes to run to the café _then_ he’d have to sneak in without anyone noticing him to get to the bathroom which would probably take an extra two minutes. He didn’t know how bad his injuries were but he thinks (based on previous experiences) it would take about ten minutes to clean his face and try and hide the worst of his wounds with his bangs- maybe even fifteen. That would make him at least half-an-hour late.

Fuck. Enjolras was going to be furious with him.

~~~

There were a lot of people at The Musain for the meeting after the successful rally they’d had the week before. Enjolras smiled over the crowd as he stood on the table. Musichetta had told him to stop standing on the tables but this was a special occasion. 

“Welcome, everybody. Thank all of you for coming tonight. I’m sure many of you are here after the rally last week and I’d like to personally thank you for listening and supporting our cause.” He always felt lighter as he spoke to the people. He felt as if he was making a difference, making a difference in this awful world they lived in. The meeting had started late this evening due to some scheduling errors made on their behalf, but it was only about twenty minutes and Musichetta said they could stay longer than they usually would.

This week’s topic of discussion was the treatment of members of the LGBTQ+ community. He knew most of the Les Amis were queer, except for Marius, he was terrifyingly straight, so he knew that this is a very important topic for all of them. He, himself was gay, although he had never come out to anyone but Combeferre and Courfeyrac. He knew his parents would be accepting of him but it would ruin his family name. 

People started cheering as he had begun his speech, mostly Courfeyrac and Bahorel, but also some of the newer members and other spectators. 

“Alright, settle down everybody.” He sent a glared with little malice to it to Courfeyrac who stuck his tongue at him in response. “Now, this week’s subject is one that we have not covered before, oddly enough. But most of you may already know how awfully homosexual people are treated. This is not a new development in our society but one that has been around for as long as we can remember.” He began, sliding easily into his ‘Speech mode’ as the others like to call it. He looked around noticing the fact that Grantaire had not showed up yet. He scoffed internally, of course he hadn’t shown up. He can’t be relied upon in any given situation, even if this was one of the most important meetings they’d had yet- Grantaire still decided to be late; if he was going to show up at all.

“If you read or listen to the news you might hear about how more and more transgender people, mostly of colour, are being killed every day. Now, this is not a new development either- the only difference now is that people are noticing it. Society is changing, _adapting_ around us. This is a good thing. People are getting more educated about the subjects, parents and families are getting more accepting when their children come out to them.” He took a deep breath as he continued.

“But not all families are like this…” He said sadly, trying to grasp the empathy needed for this part of the speech. “People kick their children to the streets, take them to conversion therapy, even abuse them physically and mentally because of their chosen gender or sexuality, and that’s not right. So many children take their own lives because of this treatment. Those who don’t are scarred and scared for the rest of their lives and-”

He wasn’t able to finish what he was saying because he heard a familiar scoff from the corner of the room. He turned around to face the cynic that he’d gotten so used to arguing with. The man held a bottle of whiskey in his hands and looked as if he was already drunk. Great, not only was he late but he’d also gotten himself drunk in less than fifteen minutes. 

“Apollo, as much as I’d like to think this speech of yours and whatever you are planning to do will improve the community, it won’t help these poor bastards. No matter what you do there are always going to be assholes in this world that will-”

Enjolras growled, “Grantaire, you are not doing this tonight. You know that if we are able to educate more people on the subject, bring more publicity to this cause, people will start to listen! Maybe even change their mindset and start treating the LGBT community better!” 

Grantaire threw his head back in laughter, “Yeah, right. People like that never change. And they’re always going to be after the “faggots” as they call them. Because they _go against God and they’re unnatural and a disgrace to this world_ ” the cynic mocked angrily. “This little thing you’ve planned ain’t gonna work.” Both of them had gotten closer as they argued.

“If you would only let me finish what I was going to say then maybe you would see that we _can_ help, we _can_ make a difference. We just need to start somewhere!” Enjolras shouted at the drunk artist who bore a grin that told Enjolras that he didn’t believe a word he said. 

“Enjolras, there are some things in this world that cannot be changed with a few protests and flyers. These people will never change and they will continue to abuse us- uh, _them_ , until they’ve all offed themselves because it’s easier than what they experience at school, in the workplace, in their _own fucking homes_. And you can’t change that.” He said darkly. Almost everybody noticing his slip up. Well, everyone except the one person that needed to. Enjolras was too angry to notice it. The leader breathed harshly out of his nose. 

“Grantaire. Why are you here if you’re only going to talk down about all that I say! You showed up late to this meeting without an excuse, just to come here and be an asshole. You have no purpose in being here other than annoy us and get in the way. You have no beliefs whatsoever and you do nothing but drink and yell; you're hopeless. You are no better than the people we’re trying to change! You’re useless here and incompetent as a member of Le Amis. Why even bother to show up!?” Enjolras shouted in a wind of fury. He hated every single word as he heard them come out of his mouth. He didn’t even know he was capable of saying such things. He doesn’t even insult the people who run against him and his cause like that. He wants to keep a level head and be seen as a bigger person. This wasn’t keeping a level head.

Enjolras saw the hurt flicker across the artist’s face before it was steeled into the careless smirk that he always bore. This was the first time he’d ever seen through Grantaire’s mask. He saw the bags under his eyes, the bruise that was forming on his face, his split lip and some dried blood on the side of his nose. What happened to him?

He didn’t have time to think before Grantaire huffed out a laugh. “I don’t even know,” and then he stormed out of the café. 


	2. Spiraling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Mentions of child abuse

Enjolras stood frozen in place as Grantaire left The Musain. He had never understood the cynic, but in that moment he wanted nothing more than to find out what was up with him. Why did he act like this. Why didn’t he believe a word Enjolras said. Why did he drink his life away when he had so much potential. Based on his comments Enjolras had noticed that the artist was much more intelligent than he let on. But why?

His thoughts were cut short as Éponine stormed up to him and slapped him hard across the face.

“You fucking asshole. ‘You are no better than the people we’re trying to change’? What’s that supposed to mean!?” She fumed. Enjolras opened his mouth to defend himself, even though he had no excuse for what he said. But Éponine wasn’t done, “Grantaire is gay! You might not care, but his father used to beat him to an inch of life because of it.” the brunette cried. “You had no right to say any of those things to him!” 

Courfeyrac had to come and drag Éponine away before she was able to attack the revolutionary. Enjolras was still as he absorbed the information. Grantaire had been a victim of child abuse. Grantaire was one of the children he fought to protect. His father _beat_ him, just because he chose to love men and not women. 

It struck him why Grantaire didn’t believe in what Enjolras was trying to do to help the LGBT+ community; any hope for a happy life as a gay person had been ripped from Grantaire’s hands as a child. ' _So many children take their own lives because of this treatment. Those who don’t are scarred and scared for the rest of their lives_.' The words of his own speech echoed in his head

Enjolras had seriously fucked up. 

The other members of The Les Amis spent the rest of the meeting telling him so. As if he didn’t hate himself enough for what he said. But this wasn’t about him, this was about how terrible of a friend he was to Grantaire. Were they even friends? Enjolras took a moment to think about his relationship with the artist.

He knows that he should hate the guy. He was loud and obnoxious and drank too much to be healthy. But still, he came to every single meeting and designed most of their posters and flyers. Even after all the disgusting things the blond had said to him, he still continued to show up. Enjolras also knew that even though Grantaire went out of his way to disagree with him and argue with him during meetings, that all that he said only strengthened Enjolras’ arguments. Sometimes Enjolras looks forward to the meetings because he needed to make his speeches more believable and compelling. And only Grantaire’s cynical opinion could help with that.

Sometimes he got anxious when Grantaire shows up late, thinking that the cynic wouldn’t show up. He looks up every time someone walked up the stairs, hoping it would be Grantaire. He tried to force his anxiety into becoming anger and usually it worked. Usually.

He did care about Grantaire, more than he cared to admit. He hated how he treated him. The artist deserved better, he deserved the happiness he was robbed of as a child. 

Enjolras realized how little he knew about the cynic. He hadn’t even known that he was gay, and definitely not that he was a victim of child abuse (though, he gets the feeling Grantaire would never want him to know that). He all of a sudden wanted to know everything he could about the other man. He wanted to know what he could do to help him. 

  


~~~

  


Enjolras watched in pain as the artist spiraled over the next few weeks. He stood by and saw Grantaire get beyond drunk most nights and he’d started to leave the Musain with sleesy men, much older than him who gave Enjolras the chills. He did not like one bit what the men were doing to Grantaire. He wasn’t _jealous_ , no, definitely not. He’d have to fancy Grantaire to be jealous of what those men were getting to do with him and Enjolras _did not_ fancy the cynic. 

The one thing that stood out most to Enjolras as the weeks went on was the fact that Grantaire stopped talking back to him as much, stopped starting arguments over everything the leader said. It was like all fight had left him. He had no snarky comments or sarcastic remarks he just sat and drank in silence. That was the scariest one of all the things that changed about the cynic.

Little did he know that Grantaire drank to try and forget all of Enjolras’ hurtful words and criticism. The words swirled around in his head and the only way to make them quieter was when he couldn’t hear his thoughts at all. And that meant being at the bottom of a bottle most nights. 

Little did Enjolras know that Grantaire indulged in sleeping with others as relief and as a distraction. He always imagined the cock inside him being Enjolras’ and the mouth on his neck being the gorgeous feminine lips of his revolutionary. He grabbed whatever hair the nameless man had and dreamt about how soft his Apollo’s beautiful locks would be between his fingers.

Little did the blond know that Grantaire had stopped having the energy to argue with Enjolras and had long given up on coming up with comments on what he was saying. He only came to the meetings to see Enjolras and his friends but now Joly won't stop fussing about him and Éponine kept asking him how he was so he was debating if it was worth it, showing up. But seeing Enjolras so in his element helped him somewhat. Seeing his friends afterwards, laughing at some joke Courfeyrac made, at Éponine’s face when Gavroche snuck out from underneath one of the tables, having been there since the beginning of the meeting.

All these things helped, just not quite enough. 

  


~~~

It was the beginning of the third week after The Argument that Joly and Bossuet came up to Enjolras after the meeting had ended. Their faces were serious, something Enjolras didn’t really see that often. Bossuet is one of the happiest members of the Les Amis; even when he accidentally fell out the window as he tried to tackle hug Grantaire while drunk, he just laughed it off as Joly ran down the stairs, panicked, after his boyfriend.

“Enjolras.” Joly began. The leader had never heard Joly use that tone before. He had a feeling he knew what this was about. Joly and Bossuet were Grantaire's closest friends, them and Éponine. Of course they'd have noticed Grantaire's descent as well.

“Joly.” He responded, wishing that Joly would just spit it out already. He looked over at the dark skinned man, “Bossuet.”

“You might have noticed that recently, Grantaire hasn’t been in a great place.” Joly began, crossing his arms over his chest. Even though Joly was a good 6 inches shorter than Enjolras, he was still insanely intimidating. Enjolras nodded hesitantly. He had noticed all too well.

“He has been drinking way more than he usually does," pause, deep breath.

"Definitely more often than he usually does." He continued remorsefully. "You also might have noticed that he’s completely stopped arguing with you, which is ridiculous because that’s the only reason he shows-” Joly had suddenly gotten very worked up, his calm facade completely gone. Bossuet stopped him by placing a hand on his boyfriend’s shoulder. The doctor looked over at him in response and only nodded as the other man shook his head. He took a deep breath before starting again.

“This has gone too far Enjolras. He’s- he’s not okay and we need to help him.” He said resolutely, his sad eyes looking into Enjolras’. The blond almost asked why they were telling him this, but he realized it was because he was partly to blame. He decided to simply agree. He explained to them that he had also noticed the shift in the cynic’s behavior and how it was starting to worry him as well.

He tried not to feel hurt at the surprise on the other men’s faces. Did he really treat Grantaire so badly that others thought he didn’t care about him at all? That needed to change. 

“Okay, so something needs to be done. I was thinking that tomorrow we simply go to his apartment and demand for him to let us help him. I know Grantaire he would never ask for help. He didn’t even tell us when he was being abused by his ex-boyfriend in le lycée. He's very secretive about these things.” Joly explained and Enjolras was taken aback. How many people had abused the artist in his life. Way too many for Enjolras’ taste. He visibly flinched when he realized; He was one of those people. God-fucking-damnit.

“Yes. That sounds good. I can’t stand seeing him waste away like this.” Enjolras confessed, closing his eyes and rubbing the bridge of his nose. 

They made plans to meet at The Musain at about seven in the morning the next day so they could go to Grantaire’s place together. It was a date. Something had to be done, they’d already waited too long. 

The three men said their goodbyes and went their separate ways, Bosseut and Joly going back into The Musain to wait for their girlfriend to finish her shift. Enjolras started to make his way towards his apartment block. 

As he walked down the dark streets of Paris he heard loud moaning from a nearby alleyway. Now, that wouldn’t have rung any alarm bells in the revolutionary’s head if he had not recognized whom the voice belonged to. He walked quickly towards where he’d heard the moan. 

“Oh, so you like that? You like that _whore_? Yeah, this is all you’re good for isn’t it? Mhmm, you’re just here to take what cock is given to you.” a dark disgusting sounding voice growled. The tone in his voice make Enjolras shiver. But no words could describe what Enjolras felt as he heard what the man got in reply.

“Oh- fuck, yes. Enjolras, _please_ , right there- oh sweet Apollo.” Grantaire gasped from where his front was pinned to the damp alley wall, his nails scratching desperately at the stone. Enjolras watched as the man pulled out of the artist and threw him to the ground. The blond was too shocked to move as the man began to kick Grantaire repeatedly in the stomach, the cynic grunting in pain with each kick.

“Stop calling for that stupid revolutionary. He doesn’t care about you and he most definitely isn’t here. If you’re going to be screaming anybody’s name, it’s going to be mine, that man who’s giving you the fucking that you crave. Y’know why? Because you’re _just._ A _slut._ Who _nobody_. _Wants._ ” the man snarled, emphasizing each word with a harsh kick. 

Enjolras stormed up to the man, who he recognized as one of the men Grantaire frequently left The Musain with, ripped him around to face him and punched him in the face. He threw him at the wall and punched him again. 

The older man began to fight back as he recovered from the attack, sending a kick flying towards Enjolras and hitting him in the thigh. Enjolras stumbled backward trying to regain his balance, giving the other the opportunity to send another fist flying. Enjolras managed to catch the man’s hand and twisted his arm behind his back, shoving him up against the wall. He leaned in to whisper into the prone man’s ear.

“You will never touch Grantaire again or you will answer to me.” 

Enjolras let go of the man who immediately ran out of the alleyway, without looking back. He turned towards where his friend had been thrown onto the ground to see that Grantaire had stood up, buttoned his trousers and was beginning to stumble out of the alley. The leader ran up to him, placing a hand on his shoulder in an affectionate gesture, but only to pull back when Grantaire flinched away. 

“Grantaire, are you alright?” he asked, and if Grantaire hadn’t known any better he would have sounded worried or scared. But Grantaire did know better and he knew that the only reason Enjolras was asking was because he was Enjolras, the kindest human being in the world, who wanted nothing more than for everyone to be equal, safe and happy. He didn’t do it because Grantaire was his friend, because he wasn’t. Grantaire was one of the people Enjolras loathed. He hated him like he hated corrupt politicians and oppression. _The world would be so much better without them_.

Grantaire turned away from Enjolras and began to walk away, “I’m fine, don’t worry about it.” He said simply, leaving Enjolras behind shocked and confused over what had just happened. 

He doesn’t know how long he stood frozen in the alley, the last minutes moving like a whirlwind in his head. The unknown man’s disturbing words and Grantaire’s groundbreaking moans. He was moaning Enjolras’ name. Why was he moaning his name?? Does… Did Grantaire… _want_ him? He couldn’t. But there’s no mistaking what Enjolras had heard. 

_Oh- fuck, yes. Enjolras, please, right there- Oh sweet Apollo._

Enjolras shivered as he thought about what Grantaire could have possibly been imagining at that moment. No, no. Now was not the time. He needed to get home and call Joly and Bossuet, maybe even Éponine. 

He began walking and before he knew it he was standing outside his apartment door, holding the keys in his hands. He unlocked the door, stepping inside and threw his jacket and bag onto the white over-priced sofa that his parents had forced him to keep when they bought him the apartment. They never let him earn anything for himself, he hated it.

He quickly pulled out his phone and shot a text at Joly, Bossuet and Éponine telling them to come over immediately, no matter what they were doing. He left it vague, saying that it was an emergency and that it involved Grantaire. 

Enjolras sat down on the sofa still unable to process what he had witnessed in that alley. He placed his head in his hands, sighing. 

He knew Grantaire hadn’t taken what the blond had said lightly, he’d known he’d taken it to heart. He regretted it just as much as he had when he’d said them. Probably more. Seeing Grantaire spiral like he had was slowly killing him. Grantaire had been through so much. So, so much. He didn't need Enjolras shitting all over him because he couldn't cope with the trauma. 

Enjolras always hated the things he shouted at the cynic during the L'ABC meetings. He tried to keep them impersonal, not actually commenting on Grantaire but more on what was coming out of his mouth. But sometimes he would snap. He would say something terrible about the shorter man and in response he would either sit down and drink in silence or storm out of the café. 

Enjolras suddenly realized that Grantaire had never once retaliated in those moments. Yeah, he made sarcastic comments about Enjolras being an all mighty God that ruled over everyone else and how his rich boy dreams might never come true, but he had never, _ever_ insulted Enjolras as Enjolras insulted him. 

And this realization hurt. It hit him in the chest and searing pain spread from his heart. He grabbed the fabric of his shirt over his heart. He was an awful friend. He really was. How could he have said all those things to Grantaire and not even wondered what effects it would have on the artist. 

He guesses he'd just forgotten that Grantaire might actually care. His carefree, don't-give-a-fuck attitude was so believable that Enjolras never realized that it might be a shield. One that had probably developed over years and years of abuse.

Enjolras felt too guilty to even cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!! I'm like scarily excited for this story and I hope you guys'll enjoy it! <333333


	3. Enjolras' Discovery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big, big trigger-warning:
> 
> Blood, self harm, cutting.
> 
> Please don't read this if it hurts you in some way <333

The revolutionary was still in his own little world when he heard a quick set of loud knocks. Were they already here? How long had he been sitting there for? 

He stood up and walked over to the front door of his apartment. When he opened the door, he had no time to react before Joly was forcing himself into the flat, Bossuet following behind him. Enjolras closed the door and turned to him friends. 

“Is Éponine with you? I texted her as well.” Enjolras asked the couple. He looked over at his friends and saw the worry on their faces. Oh right, they had no idea why he called them over. 

“No, she- she wasn’t outside, she’s probably still on her way.” Bossuet answered, sitting down on the hated white sofa. Joly looked like he didn’t have the patience to sit down, because he just stood next to Bosseut and tapped his foot, leaning on his cane. 

“Uh, should we, y’know, wait for her or-” Enjolras stammered. He’d never felt this _awkward_ before. This was suddenly a very personal matter. He dreaded having to lie about why the man had attacked Grantaire. But he wasn’t going to tell them that the man Grantaire was being fucked by attacked him because he didn’t like the fact that he was screaming out Enjolras’ name, mindless with pleasure. 

“Enjolras. I don’t think I can wait. We can just, just say again when she gets here, okay?” the doctor pleaded tiredly, one arm crossed over his stomach, clutching the hand he'd placed on his cane. Enjolras nodded with understanding.

“Right, right.” he made his way over to the sofa and sat down next to Bossuet. He took a deep breath. “So uhm, after you guys went inside I- I began to walk home. I heard some weird sounds coming from an alley and- Hey, I know it’s _usually_ nothing,” he defended himself from the looks both men were sending him. “but I recognized the voices. Well, one of them anyways.” he fidgeted where he sat on the sofa, which was very unlike him. Both Joly and Bossuet noticed this. 

"It was Grantaire. He- he was y'know…" he trailed off awkwardly. Bossuet couldn't help the little smile that crossed his lips at the fact that Enjolras couldn't say ' having sex'. 

"Shut up-" Enjolras responded when he saw Bossuet's face. "Anyway. He was- yeah, but then the man, it was this one guy he'd left the café a lot with recently," Both men's eyebrows rose. Enjolras ignored them again "He just threw him to the ground and started kicking him." He breathed again. Does he tell them what the man had spat at the cynic? If he did, how much should he say?

"He, he started telling him that- that I don't care about him- well he didn't say my name, but he said _revolutionary_ , so actually that could be anyone of us..." He stammered awkwardly. "But he also talked about how, how Grantaire was nothing. He was only a- a _slut_." He furrowed his brows. "I couldn't help but attack the man, I was so _angry_. The man left but when I tried to talk to Grantaire he brushed me off, said he was fine. I really don't think he is. Do you… do you think he believes what the man was telling him?" 

He looked up at Joly and Bossuet and felt his stomach dropping at the look of pure horror on their faces. 

"Oh God. This- this is bad. He probably does, Enjolras." Joly announced in a quiet voice. _Shit._

"Joly's right. This is probably worse than we thought. It's bad enough that his own brain fuels his self-loathing, he doesn't need other people doing the same." He said, almost _accusingly._

Joly knocked him up the side of his head. _Not now_ , Enjolras heard him hiss at his boyfriend. 

Enjolras' stomach clenched with guilt once more. But now was not the time to focus on that. He was going to help Grantaire. He promised himself he would never hurt the other man again. Grantaire might be an asshole, but he's a good man and he deserves more than what his life throws at him. 

"I'm going to go check on him." Enjolras suddenly announced. Standing up, determined to do something about the situation.

"Enjolras-" Bossuet began but Joly cut him off.

"No, I think that could be a good idea. I think it could help Grantaire to see you- _without_ arguing." He gave Enjolras a _look_. Once again, despite his size, Joly seemed very intimidating. 

“We’ll talk to Éponine. Tell her what happened. She might somehow twist this up to being your fault. You know how she is when it comes to the people she loves- and we definitely don't need her attacking you right now.” Bossuet took out his phone and shot their friend a text. Telling her to meet them at The Musain.

Enjolras nodded, guilt still sitting heavily in his gut, before making his way to the old-school coat hanger that he had found at a fundraising flea market event. Joly and Bossuet stood by the door by the time Enjolras had put his shoes and they made their way to the lift together. 

Nobody said anything during the ride down, everyone still worrying about their friend. When they got to the lobby the doorman waved them a hasty goodbye as they walked past.

The three men stood outside Enjolras' apartment block in a deafening silence. None of them know what Enjolras was going to find in Grantaire's apartment. Some part of them never wanted to find out.

"Let us know if he's okay when you get there." Joly said before the couple turned and walked back towards their own home. 

_If he's okay._

  


~~~ 

  


Enjolras had only been to Grantaire's place once before. He went to pick up one of Grantaire's posters so he could get them multi copied. It wasn't on the good side of town, not by far. Enjolras couldn't help but shiver at the coldness of the street the artist lived on. It was dark and filthy. Drunks and druggies hung out at the side of the roads, not even noticing when Enjolras passed them by.

The apartment block wasn't nice either. It was an old French building that must have been there since the 1800s. The structure was made out of wood but the walls themselves stone. It seemed to be falling apart and in no real state to have residents. 

He made his way up the stairs and knocked on the door he remembers being Grantaire's. Nobody answered. He knocked again, harder. Still no answer. His heart started racing. 

What if something happened to him. What of some drunk person had broken into his apartment and hurt him and he did nothing about it because he thinks he deserves it or something like that. 

_No, Enjolras, calm down_ , he scolded himself. Why the fuck was he acting like this. He was being ridiculous. But was he really?

He decided to just let himself in. He opened the rotting wooden door that creaked as it moved to open into a depressingly small apartment. It was like he was seeing it for the first time. How hadn't he noticed the state his friend was living in? He had been here _before_ and hadn't done _anything_!

"Grantaire?" He called out to his friend. "Grantaire are you here?" He tiptoed into the flat. It was eerily quiet. He takes in his surroundings but before he could speculate on them he noticed something in the living room that looked like it doubled as a dining room and kitchen as well. 

On the floor, surrounded by various bottles of alcohol ranging from wine to vodka, lay Grantaire, passed out. He wore no shirt, no socks, only a pair of jeans. Enjolras relaxes a bit knowing that his friend was semi-okay. Well, not really, not at all actually. It looked like he'd drunk until he passed out. Or so Enjolras thought. 

As he moved closer he noticed red. So much red. It was everywhere. Everywhere around the cynics prone body. Enjolras ran over to where the man lay and got down on his knees, seeing, only, _red_. 

Enjolras' eyes scanned Grantaire's body and saw the source of the blood. 

Grantaire's right arm. It was covered in cuts. Enjolras' eyes were misty as he noticed that these cuts weren't random. They spelled out words.

_Useless_

_Hopeless_

_Whore_

_I'm sorry_

And lastly, one that made Enjolras sick. Sicker than the time he used the money his parents had given him to go help bombing victims in Syria and he'd seen so many innocent civilians injured and mutilated. This felt worse; because this was personal.

_Apollo_

The hated nickname that had slowly been growing on the revolutionary stood out against the pale skin on the back of Grantaire's right hand. It hadn't bled as much as the other wounds, only a few blood drops pearling on top of the cut, oxidized and dark.

Enjolras checked his left arm but found only a bloody razor blade clutched tightly in the other man's hand.

He took it and threw it angrily across the room. He felt furious. But not at the razor, not really. Not at Grantaire either, but himself. This was his fault. All the evidence needed was the 'Apollo' fucking _carved_ into the artist's hand.

"Grantaire, Grantaire please. Wake up." He begged in a hoarse voice as he shook his friend's motionless body.

When Grantaire doesn't respond Enjolras feels his heart stop and his stomach drop. No, no, no, no. This could not happen. Enjolras is almost too paralyzed to check Grantaire's breathing. He lets out a loud sob of relief when he feels Grantaire's soft breath on the shell of his ear. He must have passed out before he'd done too much damage. Even though Enjolras thinks this is already too much damage. 

There was so much blood. And it was everywhere. On Grantaire's arms, his chest, it had probably stained his jeans. The blond never wanted to see Grantaire bleed again. Not while he still lived and breathed. 

His hands shook as he leaned forward to scoop Grantaire’s limp body up from the floor, the flowing blood now soaking into his own clothes. He carried the artist into his small bedroom where he placed him on top of his unmade bed. He left the room only to get something to clean up the blood and medical supplies. He returned with a towel, two wet hand towels and the over-the-top first aid kit he'd found. He placed everything onto the small twin bed, then awkwardly lifted Grantaire up to place a towel under him. Enjolras didn’t really want Grantaire waking up in a bed crusted with blood. 

Now, he wasn’t a doctor but he’d been in a handful of situations where he’d have to patch someone up afterwards. Not to this extent, but he had a general idea of what to do. 

Stop the bleeding, clean the wound and bandage. He was scared for a second that Grantaire would need stitches and therefore go to the hospital but no, the cuts weren't long or deep enough to need stitches. 

He used some gauze to apply pressure on some of the cuts. There were so many. Enjolras realized that this was going to take much longer to bandage than the time someone hit Courfeyrac in the head with a spade and he had to wrap that. 

Enjolras took a wet hand towel and tried to clean as much of the drying blood off as possible. It started to bleed again in some places but he just patiently placed more gauze on top to make it stop. 

While waiting he had wondered why Grantaire had so many medical supplies and bandages in his apartment before remembering who Grantaire’s best friend was. Joly would probably bring him new supplies once a month or something endearing like that. He couldn’t help but smile at the sentiment. 

Grantaire didn’t react at all as Enjolras cleaned the wound with disinfectant. Didn’t even flinch. But the blond knew that the mix of blood loss and the amount of alcohol the other man had consumed meant that he would probably be out for a while. 

When he had finally finished wrapping Grantaire’s sickeningly thin arm he drew back to actually _look_ at the man. 

Enjolras could see his ribs and his usually-there stomach was gone. Enjolras had always liked the slight softness to Grantaire’s form, it made his whole being more approachable. Even with the muscles he gained from boxing and fencing, he still had this amiable aura to him.

Now he just looked cold, he looked vulnerable. Bruises were beginning to form on his stomach from where the asshole had kicked him earlier that night. It made Enjolras sick to his stomach. But what he hated more was another bruise, forming on his neck, right underneath his ear; a hickey. 

He didn’t understand why it was bothering him so much. He tells himself it’s because of who gave it to him. The abusive fucker. Enjolras had a feeling he knew why it bothered him, but he didn’t even want to _think_ about it. 

Enjolras knew that he had always felt a little different about this man than the rest of the Les Amis. He’d noticed the feelings but chose to ignore them- he didn’t have time for those kinds of things, and he least of all with Grantaire. Why should he like the cynic? All they did was argue, Enjolras doesn’t think they’d ever had a civil conversation. But he couldn’t help it. Grantaire sometimes had good points and Enjolras occasionally enjoyed their debates. He was a lovable character, Grantaire. Carefree and sarcastic. Nicer than he pretends to be. 

But now wasn’t the time for this. He needed to take care of the man. He needed to make sure he never felt the need to harm himself or drink himself into unconsciousness ever again and the only way to do that was if he focused on the matter at hand. 

He looked back down at Grantaire; at the bandages wrapped carefully around his arm. The cuts would scar. Enjolras hated that. But it was true, there was always going to be a small imprint of the terrible things the artist associated himself with. Ones that the rest of the people in his life, Enjolras included, had convinced him of.

He took off Grantaire's trousers, knowing how uncomfortable Grantaire would feel waking up in them. A voice in the back of his head kept reminding him that it was a bit weird removing the pants of someone you might be interested in without them knowing- but now was not the time for such a crisis. Enjolras removed the bloody towel from underneath Grantaire and lifted the covers over the cynic's body.

His heart aches as he finally exited the room, wanting Grantaire to sleep in peace and to clean up the apartment for him. He deserved that much. 

Bottles litter every surface in the small apartment. Every counter, all the tables and the floor. In the corner he can see a shelf full of art supplies; they don't look like they've been touched in a while. A small easel was stuffed in a corner, an old canvas still on it. It was unfinished. 

The piece was all dark colours, red, black and greys streaked across the work. He moved away from the painting before he could get to invested in the emotions it held. 

He walks towards the sofa where he had found Grantaire lying. His blood puddled on the floor, seeping into the old wooden floorboards. How could there be so much blood? They were such superficial wounds but they bled so much. 

The image he had stumbled across earlier was still vivid in his mind. He couldn't remember a time he'd felt so helpless. 

Enjolras hadn't realized he was just staring at the blood, emotionless and still, until he heard a gasp. He turned to see Joly and Bossuet standing in the doorway. He hadn’t even thought of calling them, he guesses that they got worried about the fact that he hadn’t called and come to make sure everything was okay. It wasn't. Nothing was okay.

He took in their expressions. Joly wore a face of utter terror, and Bossuet of confusion. It wasn't because of the state of the apartment, because of the bottles or the fact that Grantaire was nowhere in sight. They were looking at him.

"Enj, you're crying." Joly said, baffled. Not once over the six years had he seen Enjolras cry. He never cries.

Enjolras reaches up to feel the wetness staining his cheeks. He hadn't noticed. 

"What happened?" Bossuet closed the door to the apartment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before you go all like "Why the fuck didn't Enjolras call an ambulance." thing. It'll be explained later in the fic don't worry about it. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading. I didn't really like my writing in the chapter but y'know what. It doesn't matter, I'm posting it anyway. It's pretty big, story wise, so like, pretty important. 
> 
> Again, thanks for reading <33333


	4. The consequences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: 
> 
> Self harm (quite graphic)  
> Suicidal thoughts (Mentioned)  
> Past child abuse (Mentioned)

Grantaire walked mechanically home. He couldn't believe what had happened. He couldn't believe he'd let Enjolras see him so weak. See him at his lowest point; being fucked against a disgusting wall in a back alley street and the beat up by the same man doing the former. He hadn't fought back, not really. The man was right, he was absolutely useless; a cockslut and alcoholic who pined for someone he could never have. Someone who would never want him. Not just because the leader hated him but because Grantaire just simply didn't deserve the God who walked among them. He was a broke art student with a drinking problem and a below-average will to live. Who in their right mind would want him. Not even Grantaire would want himself.

Before he knew it, he was home. He was on his sofa, a bottle of wine in his hand and a slight buzz in his body. This was an all to familiar situation- having only gotten worse and more common after _that_ night. The night Michael returned out of nowhere and sent Grantaire reeling down memory lane. The night Enjolras had finally admitted how he felt about the cynic. Confirmed all that Grantaire had suspected since the day he'd met Enjolras all those years ago.

All he'd wanted since then was to forget the sound of Enjolras telling him how worthless he was. The voices in his head had stopped sounding like himself when they explained to him how awful he was, how nobody actually cared about him, they just kept him around because they felt bad for him.

Now it was always Enjolras.

Grantaire felt himself spiral and suddenly he couldn't take it anymore. He needed to escape, the drink wasn't enough. Usually the drunkenness was able to get rid of the flashes of beautiful golden curls and passionate blue eyes, but not this time- this wasn't enough. He only knew one other way. 

Grantaire stood up from his seat on the sofa and drunkenly made his way to the bathroom. In the bathroom he walked over to one of the drawers in the single shelf that was currently half-broken, leaning towards one side. It was one of those drawers where you just throw a bunch of shit in there and leave it there forever. Grantaire opened it and began to rummage through the mess. He pulled out an unopened pack of razor blades and placed them on the side of the sink. He hadn't done this since lycée. He'd promised himself he'd stop after he'd almost killed himself one night. He had cut too deep, too many times. Grantaire had passed out from blood loss but somehow survived- waking up almost wishing he hadn't.

Nobody knew about this incident. He hadn't known whether he should have been relieved or distraught at the fact that nobody had come looking for him.

He walked over to the sink and looked at himself in the mirror. Grantaire had never really liked his face; he wasn't as pretty as Marius, not as handsome as Bahorel and definitely not godlike like Enjolras. His nose was crooked from all the times it had been broken, his jaw was soft and most often covered in an unattractive stubble. He had dark bags under his eyes and his hair was greasy from not showering; the curls separating into small locks as they stuck to his forehead. He had pale skin, even with his Italian heritage, he'd lost his natural colour after he'd stopped going for runs in the morning, after he'd stopped taking care of himself. He didn't look at all healthy anymore and he was painfully aware of it.

He glanced back down at the razor blades, making his decision. He needed to escape. He needed to voices to stop. The pain in his heart to stop. All of it.

Grantaire opened the packaging and took one blade out, putting the box and the rest of the blades back into the drawer. His heart felt heavy as he dragged himself back into the living room. Grantaire sat down on the floor, looking at the mess around him. There were bottles everywhere, it reeked of alcohol and unfinished artwork littered the room. He tried to ignore the painting that still sat on the easel shoved in the corner. He'd started that painting the night he and Enjolras fought. It was a whirlwind of grays and blacks, painted in a fury of emotions as he finally realized that he was worth nothing. The streaks of red came with the shame and his broken heart. From the blood he used to spit from his mouth when his father broke his nose, when he had to lie to the hospital staff that his internal bleeding was from being jumped on the street, not because his father had found a drawing of a boy he liked and had once again tried to 'beat the gay out of him'. The colours mixed together creating a sorrowful painting that Grantaire would most likely never show to anybody.

He hadn't painted much after he finished that one. His usual inspiration was Enjolras and the thought of the man who loathed him so almost made Grantaire cry.

' _Useless_ ' Enjolras' voice echoed through his head. 'You're useless here and an incompetent member of the Les Amis.' _He was right, he was right, he was right_. He carved the word into his forearm, watching in sick pleasure as a thin trail of blood ran down the side of his arm, small drops landing on the floor between his raised knees.

' _Hopeless_ ' he had to stop a few times whilst cutting to blink away the tears in his forming in his eyes. 'You have no beliefs whatsoever; you're hopeless.'

If only the leader knew. He huffed out a strangled laugh. This world is beyond hope and no one can save it at this point. But Grantaire knew if someone could make a difference, anyone in the whole world, it would be Enjolras.

' _Whore_ ' this wasn't something Enjolras had said to him but he definitely thought it, Grantaire had seen the look the revolutionary had shot at him as he left the bar with his next distraction. 'You like that you little whore? This is all you're good for- submitting and taking cock.' 

Grantaire hates himself for wanting to hear Enjolras say those words to him. He'd love to be Enjolras' whore. 

Grantaire cut a deep line across his arm at that thought. God, he was so _fucked up_ . How many times had he moaned out the leader's name, begging him to make him come as some nameless man had his way with him in a back alley street? How many times had Joly, Courfeyrac and Bahorel sent him looks of pity when they caught him staring at Enjolras in awe during an intense speech? How many times had Éponine had to drag him from a bar from where he'd been drinking to forget Enjolras' scorn looks and hateful comments. He knew it was unhealthy, how much power Enjolras had over him, how much he adored him. But how could he not? How could he not have fallen for this man. He was beautiful; gorgeous blond curls atop his head which he tried to keep away from his face in a ponytail, his sharp jaw that clenches in such a fascinating way when Grantaire begins to tear down his speeches. Enjolras' eyes were so blue. They shone with compassion and confidence. Enjolras' mouth. His _mouth_. Grantaire could wax epic poetry about that mouth. He wanted that mouth to do sinful things to him. He wanted those lips on his body and his tongue intertwined with his own. 

More than anything he wanted those lips to tell him they loved him, that he was worth something.

Then there was the fiery passion Enjolras had when he spoke about his cause. The excitement in his voice and the determination etched onto his face. He genuinely believes that he can change the world, that the _Les Amis_ can change the world. It's so compelling that it almost makes Grantaire believe. Almost.

If Enjolras knew how the cynic felt he would hate him (well, hate him _more_ ). Grantaire had always accepted that he would only ever be able to look from afar because at least then he could _look_. If his Apollo found out, he would never let him attend his stupid meetings again.

' _I'm sorry_ ' he sliced across the top of his arm, running out of space on the underside. 

At this point he could hardly see what he'd carved into his arm because of the blood pouring out of the wounds. He was starting to feel lightheaded. Both from the alcohol and the loss of blood he presumed. He knew he would probably pass out soon. He found just enough strength to cut one thing into the back of his hand, before he lost consciousness.

' _Apollo_ '

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is shorter than the last three, but it's like kinda important and fucking intense. The next chapter will be longer I swear! 
> 
> Thank you guys again, I'm having so much fun writing this (I love pain, help me) and I hope you guys enjoy reading it <333333


	5. Am I dead?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a mess, I honestly don't know what I'm doing.

Grantaire woke up to pain shooting through his right arm and a loud throbbing in his head. What the fuck did he do last night?

Suddenly everything came back to him. The alley. The beating. Enjolras. The drinking. The cutting. He felt shame pool in his stomach. He's a fucking idiot. But he'd wanted the pain to stop. He'd wanted it all to stop.

The artist blinked his eyes open, trying to adjust to the harsh light coming through his bedroom window. Wait a minute. Bedroom? He remembered passing out in the living room. He shot up from his place on the bed, immediately regretting it as his head spun and his stomach churned. He barely had time to grab the bucket that had conveniently been placed by his bedside, emptying the meager contents of his stomach into the bucket. It was mostly alcohol.

His throat burned and tears streaked his face from retching, the pain in his arm making itself even more apparent. He wonders whether he passed out from the alcohol or blood loss. We will never know.

He put the bucket back onto the floor and tried to take in his surroundings. He was in his bedroom, under the covers. His jeans had been removed but he was still wearing his boxers. He looked down at his arm. It had been bandaged. Shit, someone must've come looking for him and found him passed out on the floor. 

They had probably just felt bad for him. Bad enough to help him.  _ Just pity _ , he thought bitterly.

On his nightstand there were some painkillers and a glass of water. He reached over with his left hand, not wanting to move the other at all, and grabbed the meds and water. He popped the pills and chugged the water like hadn't had a single drop of water for weeks.

He drank too fast and was thrown into a coughing fit. He wasn't expecting the footsteps he heard outside his door just then. It must be JBM or Éponine, no one else cared enough to come looking for him.

Which is exactly why his breath caught in his throat with surprise when Enjolras opened the door, looking worried and as if hadn't slept at all last night.

He definitely died last night. He finally died as he bled out on the cold wooden floors of his shitty apartment; his body probably still there, untouched. It was a stretch to think someone would come and save him at this point. He'd pushed everyone away after his fight with Enjolras.

"You're awake." Enjolras stated simply. Grantaire probably imagined it but the leader sounded relieved. Why would anyone be relieved that he had awakened, as if they'd been worried he wouldn't. But really, if he was dead then it makes sense that his Heaven would be Enjolras actually giving a shit about him.

Grantaire opened his mouth to answer but as he attempted to speak he was launched into another coughing session.

The revolutionary ran towards where Grantaire sat on the bed, grabbed the glass and exited the room. Well, that didn't last very long. Not even heaven's Enjolras wanted to be around him when he found out how much of an inconvenience Grantaire really was.

His heart still felt heavy when his coughing fit stopped. It seemed only fitting that in heaven he would be alone. Alone, hurt and wishing he ceased to exist. Perhaps he had been sent to hell. That's where his father had always told him he would end up. And after all he'd done, all the "sins" he'd committed, he wouldn't he surprised. Turns out the man was right all along. He pulled his knees up to his chest, making himself as small as possible. Which wasn't hard due to the amount of weight he'd lost in the past weeks.

He'd been so sunken into his thoughts that he hadn't noticed someone walking back into the room and sitting down next to him.

"Grantaire? Are you alright? How are you feeling?" The cynic was ripped from his self-deprecating thoughts as Enjolras placed a hand on his shoulder. He looked at the blond unfocused, still disassociating slightly. Enjolras handed him the glass. Grantaire took the cup, now filled with water, and downed the whole thing. He placed the cup in between his thighs and chest and looked back up at the revolutionary. His hair was disheveled and his eyes were tired but he still looked beautiful. Whether he had made it into heaven or hell, they'd captured his Apollo amazingly.

"Am I dead?" He blurted out dumbly.

Grantaire couldn't for the life of him (or death, he presumed) determine the look on Enjolras' face at that moment.

"What? No! Of course not Grantaire!" Enjolras seemed shocked at the question. Grantaire's name on the other man's tongue without the bite or malice behind it made it hard to believe him. Enjolras would never say his name so affectionately.

"Then, what- why, what are you doing here. Why would the mighty Apollo be in my shitty apartment giving me glasses of water and painkillers, bandaging my self-inflicted wounds and carrying me to my bed if I weren't currently in my own personal heaven?" Grantaire challenged. He was dead, what did it matter what he said, it wasn't anything his subconscious didn't know already.

Enjolras looked even more horrified with each word that exited the cynic's mouth.

"I- I was worried about you so I came over to see if you were alright. And I'm sure glad I did."

Grantaire scoffed. God was gonna have to try harder than that. "Yeah, right. As if Enjolras would ever 'come over' to see if I was okay. The guy hates me, he basically told me so himself, 'You have no purpose in being here other than annoy us and get in the way. You have no beliefs whatsoever and you do nothing but drink and yell; you're hopeless. You are no better than the people we’re trying to change! You’re useless here and incompetent as a member of Les Amis. Why even bother to show up.'" Grantaire mocked Enjolras' voice, quoting word-by-word what the leader had said to him all that time ago. He had no fucking idea why he was telling him this, he must still be a bit out of it from the blood loss. Or the alcohol. Or just from dying in general.

Enjolras wanted to cry, it only hit him how deep his words had cut. He knew he'd gone overboard, it had been eating away at him ever since, but he hadn't realised how big of an impact it had made on Grantaire. His mind wandered back to the one word on Grantaire's arm he refused to acknowledge.

_ Apollo _ .

It was what Grantaire had always called him. His words were the ones that pushed the cynic over the edge.

"No, no. You're not dead. And of course I don't hate you, you're a part of the Les Amis; you're like family." Enjolras stammered.  _ Maybe even more _ , his mind betrayed him. He still couldn't believe what he'd done. How badly he had fucked up.

"Hah! You're not doing a very good job at convincing me that I didn't bleed out last night, that I'm not in heaven or hell for that matter and they're just telling me what I want to hear." Grantaire rambled.  _ Not real, not real _ , he tried to convince himself. But God how Grantaire wishes it was. 

The revolutionary didn't know what to say so he didn't the one thing he could think of. He shot forwards and wrapped his arms around Grantaire.

"What do I need to do for you to believe that this is real?" Enjolras whispered into Grantaire's ear as the cynic hesitantly began to return the hug.

"I- I don't know…" he stated honestly.

They stayed there for what Grantaire thinks must have been years and he's sure he'd never felt so content in his life- it wasn't hard to top the average contentedness of his life but not even Éponine's hugs felt like this. He hadn't had anyone touch him like this for months; he'd only gotten claps on the back from his friends or rough hands on his hips as they pinned him down.

He felt safe for the first time in way too long. Enjolras' arms felt like a barricade around him, shielding him from his bad thoughts and self-loathing. Grantaire buried his face in the blond's neck, inhaling deeply. It smelled completely and utterly of Enjolras and Grantaire realized that this must be real; his mind couldn't replicate the leader's scent like this. This was truly Enjolras. 

Enjolras had come looking for him after seeing him get beat up in a dark alley and helping him- not to scold him for being so careless or for not fighting back, but because he had been worried. Which means that he must care, even just a little bit. He can live with 'a little bit'.

There was a small voice in the back of his head telling him that Enjolras was only doing this out of pity or that this was some cruel prank that Courfeyrac and Éponine, maybe even Gavroche had set up, knowing about his unhealthy attraction to the other man. 

No, his friends weren't that horrible. 

He decided to go with the lie for now. He had no idea how long it was going to last so he had to enjoy it whilst he had it. 

Grantaire never gets to have good things for very long.

  
  


~~~

Grantaire fell back asleep in Enjolras' arms, the revolutionary laying him down and tucking him in. 

He looked down at the man in the bed, stroking a stray curl out of his face. Enjolras had always loved Grantaire's messy black curls. The way that they never stayed in place, Grantaire constantly running his hands through them. Sometimes Grantaire would show up to a meeting, chest heaving from running and paint him his hair. The revolutionary thought it was adorable. 

His hand had ended up resting on Grantaire's jaw as the artist slept peacefully. Enjolras couldn't help but blame himself for this. He had always been so cruel to the cynic, always taken things too far. Every time he opened his mouth to say something, something awful came out. He hated it. Grantaire deserves to be happy. 

Enjolras had always fought for the people; fought for the homeless, the poor, the minorities in the world. The abused. He had fought for them. Everyday of his life he dedicated to making their lives better. 

Why hadn't he done the same for Grantaire? Grantaire was abused his entire childhood for something he couldn't control. He was beaten both at home and at school, according to Jehan and Éponine. Enjolras suddenly wanted nothing more than to punch everyone who had ever laid a hand on the cynic. 

The cynic. 

It all made sense now. The disbelief in good people. The cynical way Grantaire viewed the world. He didn't believe in good people because he hadn't ever known any. All the people society tells you to put trust into betrayed him. His parents, or parent, Enjolras hadn't heard any talk about Grantaire's mother yet. And his  _ partner _ . 

Enjolras didn't know why that word felt so venomous in his mouth. He didn't want Grantaire to have a partner. Why was that? He of course wanted the artist to be happy and he deserved someone to love and be loved by but why did Enjolras- 

The realisation hit him like a double-decker bus. 

He didn't want Grantaire to have a partner because  _ he  _ wanted to be Grantaire's partner. 

Enjolras removed his hand from the artist's jaw, where he had been absentmindedly been stroking his gaunt cheek with his thumb. He turned away from the sleeping form placed in the bed. 

The revolutionary stood up to leave Grantaire to rest for the second time in the last twenty-four hours. He had to let the others know the verdict. 

They had decided to have only one person in there at a time. Grantaire didn't seem like he would want everybody knowing about what happened- even though more than half of Les Amis were sitting, nervously biting their nails, in Grantaire's tiny living area. 

The group had worked together to clean everything up for Grantaire; they picked up all of the bottles and Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta took them to the 24/7 recycling center they had gotten the city to open. They had to drive there but the three didn't mind. The rest cleaned the apartment; Enjolras meant to clean up the blood but every time he turned to, he froze up. He wasn't squeamish, he wasn't freaked out by blood, it was just that it was  _ Grantaire's  _ blood.

Combeferre had given him a sad look before taking the towel and cleaning up the blood himself. The others seemed to notice this as well and looked at him with what Enjolras could only identify as pity. 

They had all walked in while Éponine tore him a new one after finding out what had happened. Joly and Bossuet had tried to calm her down but she ignored them as she yelled at Enjolras.

“If you weren’t so thick as to notice how much your opinion affects him. He does  _ everything _ for your approval and then he makes  _ one  _ mistake and you yell at him telling him about all of his insecurities making him return the the drink- That you apparently  _ hate _ , but are still mostly the reason he does it! You don’t know how many times I’ve had to drag him home from a bar while he cries about how you hate him and how worthless he is!” The others had backed off at that point, knowing that there was no stopping her. Enjolras simply stood there like a guilty dog with his tail between his legs and let Éponine tell him all the things the rest of the group had kept from him for all this time. Things that Grantaire had asked them to keep from him all this time.

In the end most of the Amis had to go to their respective classes and Enjolras was left with Combeferre and Joly. The three sat in the "living room", which was really just a rotting sofa covered in paint sitting in the middle of the space between the front door and kitchen area. 

Enjolras felt overwhelmed with information. Everything that Éponine had spilled to him in her angry rant was echoing through his head. 

What he had gathered was that Grantaire apparently had-  _ 'affections' _ towards him but never said anything because of his self-loathing and Enjolras' stupid mouth. The blond groaned into his hands, where he had laid his head before looking up at Joly. 

"Joly, what else don't I know about Grantaire. Tell me everything." He begged the medical student. Joly looked at him apprehensively. "Please, Joly. I need to know. I have to fix this but I can't if I don't have all the information." Enjolras' voice broke at the end as he pleaded. 

Joly looked over at Combeferre who sighed before nodding slowly. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys for reading! I appreciate each and every one of you! I hope you're enjoying this so far. I have a few things planned but we'll see where it goes >:]


	6. Pieces of the past

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings:
> 
> Child abuse (mentioned)  
> Homophobic language

  
  
  


Enjolras felt worse and worse as Joly told him about Grantaire’s past. His father had apparently always been bitter, for as long as Joly could remember. Grantaire would come to class with badly covered up bruises, he skipped classes sometimes, but Joly told him he had never once showed up to PE or swimming. 

Joly also told him how Grantaire took Spanish and German in Lycée, then also studying Icelandic and Mandarin in university. He had gotten a scholarship because of his art and did dancing and fencing on the side. He majored in Classic literature and art. 

Enjolras hadn’t known any of this. He didn’t know Grantaire was too self-conscious to show up to PE or swimming, he hadn’t known the other man was fluent in almost six languages, he knew Grantaire drew and painted, he used to never show up to the Musain without his sketchbook- well, until The Argument. He hadn’t known Grantaire got a  _ scholarship _ to the expensive university they all went to for his art. Enjolras had known Grantaire did boxing but never dancing and fencing. 

The revolutionary felt sick at the thought of how many times he had told the artist he never did anything with his life, that he was just a useless drunk. He didn’t really know  _ why _ he said it. He never had control over his mouth around Grantaire. He hated it, because he’d ended up hurting Grantaire- almost to the point of no return. 

When Joly told Enjolras about the time Grantaire had come over to Bossuet, beaten and bloody, crying over who knows what- Joly said he’d been blubbering nonsense. Them finding out later that Grantaire’s father had found his phone with the Polaroid of him and his then boyfriend Michael kissing in one of the drawers in Grantaire’s bedroom, he’d been furious. He had refused to have ‘fag living under his roof’. 

Joly looked haunted as he spoke of that night. 

“It was awful. He refused to go to the hospital. His dad is his emergency contact and he knew that he’d be called immediately, but he was in such bad shape. He looked awful as he almost bled out on Bossuet’s sofa.” Joly placed a hand on his mouth as if to choke back a sob. Enjolras looked over at Combeferre, not knowing what to do. Enjolras stood up to comfort Joly, moving his cane so he could sit down next to the medical student. 

“And he still went back to him. Two days later, he was barely healed, he went back. I don’t get it. Why? Why would he go back to that monster?” Joly was silent for a few minutes, Enjolras simply rubbing a hand up and down his back. Soon Joly began again.

“Then came the thing with Michael.” He shakes his head, a pained smile. “In second year, a rumour about Grantaire being gay started spreading through school- it wasn’t wrong but still, it was a rumour going on. Michael had asked Grantaire out. Michael was the like, the jock, the cool guy. So Grantaire said yes. Grantaire was so happy while they were dating. Michael had been so good for Grantaire, at first.” He trailed off.

Enjolras furrowed his brows, this couldn’t be the abusive boyfriend could he? “At first?” he prompted.

“Yeah,” Joly chuckled dejectedly, “One night, the two were going to have “a sleepover” and we all know what that means to two Lycée students.” He said, slight anger in his voice. Enjolras hated the jealousy he felt at the thought of Grantaire sleeping with someone else, even if it was so many years ago, and he didn’t own Grantaire.

“Grantaire had been excited, because y’know, this was his first boyfriend, the first person that wasn’t just a friend to show any sort of affection. But then-” he gulped, “He calls me, he’s crying, begging me to come over, he even promised me his dad wasn’t home. That it would be safe for me to come.” Joly had tears in his eyes again.

Enjolras spared a glance over at Combeferre who had a look of worry on his face, he looked how Enjolras felt. 

“I showed up to his house, he had found his dad’s alcohol and he- he was drunk, absolutely blind drunk. He was in his boxers and he was crying, heartwreching sobs. The kind that you feel deep in your stomach, y’know.” He looks up at Enjolras, “Turns out, his entire relationship with Michael had been a joke.” Enjolras saw red.

“What? What do you mean?” He could barely keep the anger out of his voice. 

“Yeah, apparently as they stepped into the bedroom, all of Michael’s friends had burst in holding video cameras, having filmed the whole thing. Michael had explained to Grantaire how when they heard of the rumour they thought it would be “Fuckin’ hilarious for Michael to lure the queer out of the closet and film it”. Two days later the video went viral in the school, people laughing at Grantaire left and right.” Joly took a deep breath. “There was only so much Bossuet, Éponine and I could do to help him.” 

The silence in the living room was unbearable. The only things to be heard was their breathing and Joly’s sniffles every now and then. Combeferre was the one who finally broke the silence. 

“What happened with Michael after they broke up?” He asked, because by the looks of it, that wasn’t the last they would hear of Michael. 

Joly over at Combeferre, “He was two years older than us, so he graduated Lycée two years before us. Things seemed to be okay. Well, as okay as things can be in ‘Taire’s life. It was not until a couple of months before graduation Bossuet and I found him getting beat up in the boys locker room, apparently Michael had been giving regular visits to beat into him the fact that no one would ever want him.” Joly shot a short and suspicious look at Enjolras, “He said it was nothing, that he’d stop after Bossuet lost our shit and threatened the guy but I just didn’t believe him.” 

Their heads shot up at a retching sound from the other room. Enjolras went to stand up but Combeferre gestured him to sit, standing up himself. 

“You, hear the rest of the story, it’s more important that you know this than me knowing.” Combeferre said before walking away into Grantaire’s room. Enjolras watched him go, face pinched with worry. He only moved his focus back to Joly when he heard soothing shushing noises from the bedroom.

“You never told me what the two of you talked about when he woke up.” Joly prompted, pulling away from Enjolras to look at him properly. Enjolras swallowed the pit in his throat, he knew someone would ask eventually.

“He- he didn’t believe that he had survived. He didn’t think  _ I _ would be here. He asked me how I would be bringing him water, giving him painkillers, moving him to bed, if he wasn’t- if he wasn’t  _ dead _ . ‘Personal heaven’ I think he used.” Enjolras couldn’t bear to look at Joly. “When I told him I had been worried about him, he scoffed, saying that I didn’t care about him- he, he repeated what I said to him, all… all those weeks ago.” He felt ill all over again, tears burning his eyes. 

“Fuck Joly, I didn’t mean it. He’s- he’s fucking amazing. He’s not useless or hopeless or a  _ whore _ or any of those things he cut into his arm-” He was cut off my a loud gasp from Joly.

“He cut  _ words _ into his arms?! He cut words- of course he fucking did. Enjolras, why didn’t you tell me this! This was worse than just a few cuts!” He whispered harshly, knowing how thin Grantaire’s walls were. He thought for a moment. “You lied to me. You said Grantaire didn’t need to go to the hospital- you knew he should’ve. Why? What was the real reason you didn’t call an ambulance?” Joly asked, suspicious.

Enjolras sighed. The first thing he thought about doing when he found Grantaire bleeding out on the floor was to call an ambulance. But he suddenly realised what that would entail.  _ His dad _ . Enjolras was terrified of involving Grantaire’s father. Enjolras wasn’t sure if that was a good enough excuse, but it had shaken him to the core to imagine Grantaire’s father reacting to this. 

“Grantaire’s father.” He stated simply, “I was so scared, Joly. I- thought he was dead. I wanted to call an ambulance, just like you said, but I thought how his dad getting involved would just make things worse. I know it’s a bad excuse, I wasn’t thinking properly. Especially when I saw-” He cut himself off with a sob. Now it was Joly’s turn to comfort Enjolras. 

“Enjolras. What did you see.” It wasn’t a question. It was a statement.

“Apollo.” he whimpered, he  _ actually fucking whimpered _ . Joly would have been taken aback if he hadn’t been so worried about what Enjolras had said. He couldn’t possibly mean. 

“Apollo was one of the words, wasn’t it.” Joly asked for confirmation, his voice shaky. The only thing Enjolras answered with was a small nod. Joly let out a strangled noise. 

"Enjolras…" Joly whispered, not knowing what else to say. They all recognized the fond nickname Grantaire used to rile the revolutionary up. 

"This is all my fault. I- I can't believe- how could I have-" Enjolras stammered, the tears on his face running free. "They're gonna scar. They were deep, Joly. Every day, he's going to have to look at all the terrible things I've convinced him he is. He doesn't need that." 

The two sat in silence and Joly rubbed Enjolras' back. 

"How am I supposed to fix this. I've done so much bad, I’ve hurt him so much for so long. I- I don’t know what to do.” 

Joly sighed before picking up his cane and standing up from the sofa. 

"I don't know what to tell you, Enjolras. I hate to say it but… Éponine is right. You've hurt him, a lot. You don't know how hard it is to see your best friend talk about someone with so much love and adoration but then only a few hours later find them drunk beyond help crying about same person because they yelled at them about useless they are." Joly smiled sadly. "I love Grantaire, and- and I know you do too, so  _ please _ Enjolras. Don't hurt him anymore. I don’t think he’ll survive another one of your outbursts.” He looked pained, Enjolras realised that he hadn’t just hurt Grantaire, he’d hurt Joly, Bossuet, Musichetta, Éponine- so many of his friends who had to pick up the pieces of the man Enjolras had broken so many times.

“If you want to help him, if you want to be worthy of loving the beautiful human that my best friend is- you'll help him now.” Joly looked at him gravely, nodding before he exited the apartment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shorter chapter- I've been really busy recently and also had a little writer's block but I think I'm back! 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	7. Disgusting Truths

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning:
> 
> Mentions of Suicide  
> Mentions of Self Harm

Enjolras sat frozen after Joly left and listened to Grantaire vomit in the other room. With a heavy heart he stood up and walked into Grantaire’s bedroom Grantaire was hunched over the bucket Enjolras had given him and Combeferre was rubbing his back.

Enjolras stepped over to Grantaire’s shaking form. He nudged Combeferre, who looked up at him. He gave him a look that Combeferre understood immediately. He stood up and went to exit the room. On his way out he stopped to clap Enjolras on the shoulder, leaning to whisper into his ear a small,  _ Careful _ , before he left. Enjolras sat down on the bed, biting his lower lip.

Grantaire laid on his back, an arm thrown over his face. His chest was heaving, most likely from vomiting. 

The silence was almost deafening. Enjolras had never liked awkward silences, but this, this was painful.

"Grantaire-"

"I'm sorry." 

Enjolras was taken aback. Why was Grantaire apologizing? Enjolras was the one who should be apologizing!

"No," he began but stopped when Grantaire moved his arm from his face, a look of shocked horror on his face. Enjolras quickly scrambled to find the right words "No, that's not what I meant- uh, I mean that: No, you shouldn't be apologizing. I'm the one who should apologize to  _ you _ ." 

Grantaire looked at him as if he was telling him that the earth had turned flat and had been taken over by aliens while he slept. But with how Enjolras has been acting towards him, the alien theory might be more likely.

"Why should  _ you _ be apologizing? You didn't do anything? All of this is just me being an idiot." He sounded genuine. He believed that this was all his fault. That Enjolras was not at all to blame for his breakdown.

"Grantaire," he's shaking his head sadly, "Please, don't say that. You can't possibly believe that I haven't hurt you."

Grantaire laughed sadly, he looked so  _ tired _ . "Apollo, you hurt me so much, I've almost stopped noticing it. I'm fully aware of it happening, all of our friends tell me, scold me for adoring some so cruel to me. They scold me for provoking you, testing your patience. But it's the best I can get. I’ll take what I can get, I’ll take whatever you give me." Grantaire was still being honest about this whole thing. Enjolras suspects the brunette still doesn't believe this to be real. 

"Grantaire," Enjolras breathed, trying to find the right words to form a response. What do you say to that? 'I'm sorry'? "I realize only now how much I have hurt you. I have been cruel to you beyond belief, driving you to drink and-and  _ cut _ yourself. I am so, so sorry. I-I can't imagine a world without you. A meeting where you're not in the corner of my eye, coming up with a witty argument against mine. A meet up with our friends without your awful jokes that somehow make Bossuet laugh." He chuckles sadly with a pained smile on his face. "You are loved by everyone, you are wanted and missed when you're not there." 

Enjolras hated seeing the confusion on Grantaire's face. The artist was looking at him as if he was speaking Chinese- no, Grantaire knew Chinese…

"You're so talented, you have so many hobbies and interests that you pursue. You're so far from being useless or worthless. I didn’t know half of the things you can do, you’re also  _ so _ intelligent. Even when we argue I can  _ hear _ it. You always know what you’re talking about and always have the sources for what you say! I hate to admit it but sometimes after we debate something I go home and look it up." Enjolras tried desperately to convey to the artist how much he added to this world.

"Why are you telling me this?" Grantaire's voice wavered. His eyes scanned Enjolras' face, trying to read it, what was the blond trying to get out of this? 

Enjolras sighs, “I need you to understand how important you are, to everybody. Because it looks like nobody ever took the time to tell you…” The revolutionary looked devastated, desperate to get his point across. He looked more desperate than Grantaire had ever seen him. 

Despite all of that, Grantaire snorted. “Yeah, because most people have the common decency of not lying to me.” This whole thing was ridiculous, Grantaire wasn’t talented or smart or kind- he just, he just wasn’t. There was a long silence. 

“Why now? Why after all this time are you saying this…?" Grantaire continued. 

Enjolras took a shuddering breath as he tried to find the correct words. "Because I finally realised what was at stake." 

There were hundreds of things Enjolras wanted to say but, for not the first time around the cynic, he was at a loss for words. The two sat in an uncomfortable silence as both of them tried to come up with something to say, anything to say. Soon Enjolras took a deep breath.

"I'm sorry, Grantaire. I'm so fucking sorry for not being there. I'm sorry for all the things I've said and all the things I haven't done. I fucked up and I realised it too late." He sounded so sincere, Grantaire didn't know what to believe.

Grantaire stared at his Apollo, his eyes flickering across the blond's face. He hates this, he hates this pity, he hates this sincerity that Enjolras is suddenly pulling out of his ass for God knows what reason. He knew it was a bad idea, that he would probably only get hurt again but he nods. 

"Thank you…" 

Enjolras looks up from his hands to scan Grantaire's face, his own pulled into a look of surprise. He had expected a sarcastic comment or an argument. He sighed with relief at Grantaire's words. He watched as Grantaire looked down at his bandaged arms.

The shame Grantaire felt in that moment, the embarrassment and humiliation was near unbearable. Enjolras had seen how he truly thought of himself, he’d seen how weak he was. How he thought Enjolras thought of him. Now, he wasn't so sure. He wasn’t sure about anything anymore.

After a long, painful silence Enjolras finally spoke up. His voice was weak and wavered slightly as he asked.

“There’s one thing I have to ask…” Enjolras’ stomach was in knots. So was Grantaire’s. What was Enjolras going to ask about? There was so much unspoken between them; What happened in the alley, what R had cut into his arms, The Argument,  _ Them _ . 

“Were- were you trying to-” Enjolras cleared his throat, his voice and emotions betraying him in that moment. “Were you trying to kill yourself?”

Grantaire was taken aback but then realised- he didn’t know the answer to that. That’s what it must’ve looked like, right? To Enjolras. Grantaire tried to come up with an answer, desperately tried to look within himself, find the strength to say no. But in the end he just shakes his head.

“I don’t know.” It all he can get out before a soft sob rips its way from his throat. Had he subconsciously been trying to kill himself? Had his mind made the decision without him? Decided that he had reached the point of no return without even feeling the need to tell him? Grantaire looked up at Enjolras and gasped in shock.

Enjolras’ face was red and there were two tears running down the right side of his face. The revolutionary reached out to hesitantly cup Grantaire’s face. He felt his heart break when Grantaire leaned into it like a touch-starved kitten. Enjolras never wanted the moment to end, he wanted to stay like that forever. He cried softly and he pulled Grantaire, who too was crying, into his arms. Grantaire went willingly, inhaling deeply as he buried himself into Enjolras’ chest. He smelled just like Grantaire’d imagined. He felt creepy for using Enjolras’ comfort to satisfy his insatiable crush but he couldn’t care less in that moment. 

“I’m so sorry, Grantaire… You deserve so much more than you’ve ever been given and I promise from now on I’m going to make sure that you get it.” Enjolras blubbered as he buried his face into Grantaire’s curls, regretting everything he’d ever said to him. He pulled away, picking up Grantaire’s injured arm carefully, trying not to hurt him. He looked down at the bandaging, swiping his thumb softly over the back of Grantaire’s hand. “I won’t let anyone hurt you again.” 

Grantaire didn’t know if Enjolras was talking about the guy in the alleyway, Grantaire or himself. All he knew was that he would take what he could get. He hated that him almost dying was what it took to get Enjolras’ attention-

Suddenly he felt sick and he ripped his arm out of Enjolras’ grasp. “You attention seeking whore-” he whispered to himself. What if he did this for attention? Was he truly that pathetic that he’d do this just to get noticed. How selfish could he be!? He scooted away from Enjolras and curled in on himself. He was disgusting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry for the hiatus that I took. I didn't think anyone liked this story so I kinda stopped writing it but I got the sweetest comment the other day and it really inspired me to continue. I did leave this one on a bit of a, I don't know if this counts as one but, I guess I left it on a cliffhanger? I'm currenly working on the next few chapters (Trying to figure out where I'm going with this XD) so the next chapter should be out soon, I hope!
> 
> Thank you so much for reading and being patient with me as I get through this writersblock. <3333

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time writing Les Mis content so i'm not quite in touch with the characters, so if they seem a bit ooc, sorry.
> 
> I love hearing feed back and Kudoses give me life! Love you guys and thank you for reading!


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